


The Sum of All Parts

by FrozenSnares



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Blood, Childbirth, Death, Depression, F/M, Family Death, First Kiss, Firsts, Friends to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, Marriage, Miscarriage, Pregnancy, Rickeen Shipweek, Teaching, beddings, betrothal, language barriers, prompt: firsts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 05:02:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8131379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenSnares/pseuds/FrozenSnares
Summary: In everything that happened, Shireen hoped that the one thing she could rely on was numbers. But even numbers could mark shortcomings, and she ended up with more than she ever thought she would. Still, she couldn’t help but pray one would always stay with her.Written for Day 1 of Rickeen Shipweek—Prompt: Firsts





	

**Author's Note:**

> [Picset](http://frozensnares.tumblr.com/post/150947177911/hello-i-made-you-a-present-for-sum-of-all-parts) made by the lovely [Valkyrien](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Valkyrien/pseuds/VIII)!

With the cold of the North and the adrenaline of battle in the air, it was a surprise anyone remembered what happened before the War against the Others. The beginnings of war were all but forgotten. Robert’s Rebellion and the Mad King Aerys were a blink in the past, a tiny upset compared to the sheer horror of Others. Rickon didn’t know half of it. His entire memory was obscured by his age, only six years of age when he arrived at the Wall from Skagos, clutching to the breeches of the wildling woman who accompanied him. Everything Rickon knew of the war, of his family, of his inheritance, was from the words of others. Luckily, he had a wealth of knowledge at his fingertips as soon as he learned to ask.

Unfortunately, Rickon didn’t talk. At least, no one knew that he could when he arrived. Not a syllable left his mouth as he was ushered about Castle Black, forced to meet fellow lords and commanders who would fight the war. Shireen had little interest in his arrival, but she was eager to see the captain of the ship he came from. However, Ser Davos had to see to his orders: delivering Rickon Stark to Stannis and the Lord Commander so his fate could be decided. Still, Ser Davos gave Shireen a massive hug before directing Rickon and his caretaker to the King’s Tower.

In the end, Rickon was too young, far too young to be allowed to fight, much less stay, at the Wall. He clearly didn't remember how the war came to be. He would be sent off to Winterfell at the earliest opportunity and taught to rule the seat he would hold after the war. Even with the decision made, everyone could tell Rickon was unhappy with the decision. His black direwolf stalked about the keep with a presence that sent everyone running, and Shireen skirted away from his path whenever he came near.

On a summons from her father, Shireen did exactly this, hiding behind a pillar for two minutes. She looked out to check if the direwolf had moved, finding him now accompanied by his owner. Rickon was swamped by his clothes, too large as they were on him. Still, he marched over to his direwolf and shoved his snout roughly. As he walked away, he called out, “Shaggy!”

Shireen waited, trying to commit his voice to memory. It was the only word he had spoken to her knowledge, and she felt that she would never hear another. As she was occupied by her thoughts, the direwolf followed after Rickon, brushing by in front of her before he ran off at an alarming pace. Taking in the breath she had been holding, Shireen continued on to her father’s rooms.

“Shireen,” Stannis greeted curtly, pacing before the fire. He looked obviously distressed about something, and Shireen knew better to interrupt his thought. “I… need to apologize to you.”

Swallowing hard, Shireen kept her silence, knowing that there was only one reason for an apology. She would walk out of this meeting with knowledge of her betrothal.

“There was no time,” her father went on. “Our position is too weak, and we cannot hold the Wall as we are. We need men, and quickly.”

“Who, Father?” Shireen asked. All her upbringing prepared her for this. She would be wed off for an alliance, and with the Iron Throne attached to her hand, her dowry was the best in the land.

“The Hightowers have the largest army in the country,” Stannis said. “Lord Hightower’s wife has just died in childbirth, his only heir lost to an illness…”

“When will we marry?” Shireen asked. She didn’t allow herself to think beyond that. The information may be new to her, but she clearly remembered everything about the Hightowers from her lessons. Her husband-to-be was twice her age, and surely only interested in her titles. There was nothing else she cared to learn.

Stannis gave her a firm look, as if he did not quite believe that she was prepared for this. “After the war,” he told her. “When everything has come to pass, and you are seated on the Iron Throne. Until then, you will be kept safe. House Stark has offered you a place in Winterfell, where you can continue your lessons and be prepared to rule when all is done.”

“Very well,” Shireen muttered. She glanced up, seeing fear pass over her father’s face. “And you, Father?”

Stannis gave her a weak smile. “I will come to you as soon as I am able.”

The sting of tears hit Shireen’s eyes. She knew her father would fight, that he would not let his men die in a battle he would not fight himself. There odds already looked bleak, and both Baratheons could easily see that their outcome did not look favorable. Before she could stop herself, Shireen ran at her father, wrapping her arms tight around his waist. In the sensible manner only Stannis could have toward his heir, he returned the embrace shortly before patting her on the head.

“Off you go, then,” he said.

“Goodbye, Father,” Shireen replied, praying to all the gods that the last time she saw her father was not at two-and-ten.

The ride to Winterfell was long. It was even longer with their company. Rickon proved to be troublesome more than anything. He ran off into the woods whenever he could, and Shireen just watched him go. Their guard tried to chase after him for a week before they learned he would return before nightfall. Regardless of this trip, Shireen knew that the young lord would not take kindly to be trapped within the walls of the castle.

Upon their arrival, their companionship became forced. Winterfell was all but abandoned. Every man and woman had gone to the Wall to help the war effort, a majority of the children with them as well. Even their guard left as soon as possible, and Shireen was left at Winterfell with Rickon, a wildling, a direwolf, a maester, and about ten other children.

Though it was obvious that the two were to keep each other company, Rickon did not cooperate. He ran off at every opportunity, leaving his lessons the instant he could get away with it and retreating to the company of his direwolf. Shireen didn’t take it personally. Her greyscale was still present, and she knew that Northerners feared the disease. Still, she was lonely at Winterfell. None of the other children would go near her, and she soon became just as silent as Rickon was fresh off a Skagosi ship. 

Her only comfort was in letters. Her father wrote her often—in his own hand—to tell her of the war effort. Stannis Baratheon spared her no details of the battles, telling her the truth of the matter, and it was in this fashion that she learned of her mother’s death. She fell mute for a month, though no one noticed it. The quiet princess who roamed the halls slowly became a ghost of Winterfell.

She watched everyone else from afar, making a note of the children who fell ill and died and the newcomers who came to the castle and never stayed long. Though she had lived in Winterfell for nearly a year now, it didn’t feel like her home. Dragonstone had scarcely given her this before she began traveling with her father’s army. Now, she was starting to think she would never have that comfort.

In her distance and the isolation Winterfell faced, Rickon started to open up. She caught him chattering away to the wildling woman in the Old Tongue, but he would stop every time he caught sight of her. These times, Shireen would retreat back to the castle where there was no one to watch her.

As much time as they spent ignoring each other, it was impossible to miss Rickon’s outburst at the news of his betrothal. He snatched the letter from the maester when the old man tried to read it to him. Without so much as another glance at the parchment, he tossed the letter behind him and Shaggydog caught it from the air. The small gesture was soon seen in the same light as Rickon’s hostility. The black direwolf went to all fours and carefully tore up the letters into the smallest shreds possible with his massive teeth. With a frown on his face and anger in his eyes, Rickon stormed away.

The maester sighed, looking at the shredded parchment. “Better the Lady Mormont than you,” he told Shireen. “That wolf may never be tamed.”

Glancing down at her hands, Shireen quickly left the room. Her own betrothal was decided for her and Rickon’s was for him. Though neither of them were happy with the choices, they both weren’t in a position to argue the cause any further.

Rickon first sat down for an entire lesson three moons later. He was unceremoniously shoved into the room by the wildling woman, who yelled sharply at him in the Old Tongue. Even with the look of pure hatred on Rickon’s face, he slumped into a seat, immediately retreating to his arms. He still looked like a small bundle of far too much fabric and hair, having never been properly groomed, but Shireen could tell that he was growing. However, he only spoke the Old Tongue, and she the common. They didn’t speak for years more.

 _Greyscale_ was the first word he ever spoke to her, even after he was forced to sit in lessons with her for two years. Their maester left them in the room after failing to teach Rickon the alphabet yet again, when Rickon turned to her and uttered the word. It was sharp, accusatory, almost as if he were declaring her as something tainted.

Shireen sighed, faced him fully, and spoke her first words to him. “Yes, greyscale, but you won't catch it.”

Rickon narrowed his eyes at her, giving her face a cursory glance before staring back down at the parchment before him and falling to silence once again.

The next day, Rickon thoroughly ignored the maester, though he continuously snuck glances her way. Again, he waited until they were completely alone before saying, “Do you touch it?”

Shireen looked his way, writing out another word. “I _could_ ,” she told him. “Do you speak the common tongue?”

Glaring at her, Rickon turned away sharply. He shoved his nose up against his paper and refused to acknowledge her for the rest of the week.

He never spoke much, from what she could tell, but she didn't have reason to either. There was little to do at Winterfell, only receiving news of the war in small increments over the next few years. Shireen read them all eagerly, glad to hear that though their losses were great, they were still holding the wall. Rickon was entirely uninterested in the news, merely slinking off after his direwolf. 

Shireen followed him out once, stepping as silently as she could through the thick layer of snow. Her steps were louder than his by far, and with the wind whipping about her, it was a struggle to watch where she was going at all. Winter was set in now, and storms were growing more frequent, but in the past few years, the residents of Winterfell had shown that they cared little for what happened so long as the Wall held.

With her breaths growing heavy, Shireen stopped to rest on her knees. Even at five and ten, she was never active enough to trudge through snow on her whims. Somehow, Rickon was never bothered by it.

“Common tongue easy,” Rickon said, without acknowledging her presence. “Easier than Skagosi.”

Shireen stared down at Rickon, realizing that he was sprouting up faster than she could recall. When she last really looked at him, Rickon was still small enough to hide behind Osha's legs. Now, he was nearing her shoulder, though his hair was just as wild and untamed.

“What of the Old Tongue?” Shireen asked. “Can you write in the Old Tongue?”

Nodding, Rickon plopped down in the snow. Shaggydog walked up with a stick in his teeth that Rickon pulled sharply away. Shireen eyed the direwolf suspiciously, watching the bright green eyes of the black beast look over her. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, seeing Rickon glance up to her. Then, Shaggydog moved behind her, pushing his snout between her shoulders until she was sitting beside Rickon.

In the snow before them, Rickon had scrawled out a series of runes and symbols. He pointed to each of them in turn, muttering out the sounds they made. When he got to the end, Shireen held out a hand for his stick. He slowly released it to her, and Shireen found her grip on it.

“Tell me again,” she asked him. They sat in silence for a moment before Rickon spoke the sounds for her again. As he went, Shireen transcribed them all to the common tongue, pronouncing the different inflections for him.

Rickon scowled down at the snow, seeing the mix of letters and runes laid out before them. He took the stick from Shireen, writing out a few runes underneath their alphabets.

“Rickon,” he said firmly, pointing to the word.

Shireen smiled. Then, she took the stick and wrote out his name. “Rickon,” she said, continuing on to write her own name. “Shireen.”

Rickon grinned back at her, snatching the stick back to scribble out what she knew was her own name in runes. He set down the stick and declared, “Shireen.”

Somehow, it was their introduction—their first, proper introduction—nearly four years after they met.

After that, Shireen often found Rickon scribbling out different words in the two languages. He'd be settled before the Heart Tree in the godswood, writing out what looked like nonsense to her. As soon as she sat beside him, Rickon would read back what he wrote so far, often random words or names. He never spent too much time speaking, but he was growing more talkative as the years passed.

No one else thought so. With how much time Shireen spent about the keep, she learned that even Osha thought Rickon was becoming more of a recluse. But Shireen saw him at his most active. Away from the keep, Rickon opened up more and more. It seemed that he was fueled by the natural turmoil of the world around him.

She remembered his first loud outburst, finally infuriated with the war. He had always seethed silently under the surface, showing small glimpses of his frustration with his brief scribbles. But Shireen knew him better than most by now. She had learned the Old Tongue from him as he learned the common from her. At a glance, she could tell that he was trying to compose a letter to offer his sword to the cause. On the day of the outburst, Shireen found a discarded letter in the snow. She picked it up tentatively, finding a response from Jon Snow that told him to stay put and learn to rule Winterfell as Warden in the North.

He stormed through the godswood, Shaggydog following in his wake. Shireen could calm the direwolf now, even if Rickon was immune to her attempts. At three-and-ten, he was unmanageable, especially with how long the war had lasted. Holding out a hand, Shireen beckoned Shaggydog toward her. The direwolf moved into her side, circling her once before settling behind her.

“Rickon,” she called.

“I'm going,” he yelled back. “Shaggydog can take me. I need to fight.”

Shireen sighed. He was nearly a man grown now, already filled up with muscle and fully prepared to fight the war. Still, she knew his position was the key to the North and that he could not die, lest the Starks lose all their claim. He knew it just as well; it was all they were taught in their lessons now. Ruling and managing figures would be of the utmost importance in the wake of the war.

“Come here,” she tried again, wondering if she could possibly calm him, if he would shy from her touch as he always had.

To her surprise, Rickon eventually trudged back over. He dragged his feet through the snow, tossing his sword off to the side. Shireen watched him train with it every day, looking out the window into the practice yard when she was supposed to be sewing. Rickon always seemed just as wild as a force of nature to her, never controlled, never tamed, but he kept his head bowed, almost looking shyly at her.

Reaching out, Shireen pulled on his fingertips lightly. He looked up, looking a little lost. Shireen tried to smile at him. “Stay in Winterfell,” she told him. “Stay to be a great lord, a good husband for your wife.”

Rickon's expression immediately soured. They never spoke of their betrothals, and Shireen bit her tongue to stop herself from erasing what she said. Rickon turned away slightly, facing the leaves of the Heart Tree. “I don't care for her,” he said. “Nor for the keep. I want to fight.”

“Stay for me,” Shireen blurted out, earning a sharp glance from Rickon. It was a small leap from the safety of their friendship—a tiny glimpse into how close they were becoming. “If the war comes south, I'll be good as dead. Stay and protect me.”

Slowly, Rickon turned back to face her. He leaned down to rest his head on hers, loosening his fingers to properly take hold of her hands. Letting out a long sigh, Rickon stepped fully in her space, their chests nearly touching. “For you, then,” he murmured. “Only you.”

Shireen ignored the sincerity with which Rickon spoke. She ignored the way her heart fluttered at his words, the way her stomach twisted with anticipation. The only thing she couldn't ignore was how much closer Shaggydog followed her about the keep, how Rickon always seemed to have his eyes on her, how he started reaching for her hands and taking her arm whenever he could. And slowly, ever so slowly, she started doing the same for him.

No one seemed to notice them. If they did, no one said anything. The growing attraction seemed obvious to Shireen, but nothing was going to stop Rickon from moving closer to her.

\--

They first kissed late at night. Hidden in the godswood, sitting against Shaggydog, Rickon was stroking over her greyscale, muttering out words in the Old Tongue. He was the only one she allowed to touch her face, and he was very gentle as he skimmed his fingertips over the landscape of her. Finally, he muttered out a word she didn't know, even with all he had taught her. Shireen reached up for his wrist, stilling his hand.

“What's that word?” she asked softly, repeating it back to him.

Rickon's face flushed, and he nearly withdrew completely. After a moment, he told her, but his voice was so soft, it got carried away on the wind. With some coaxing, Rickon told her again, leaning into her ear and whispering out, “Can I have a kiss?”

Shireen's breath caught in her throat. She blinked up at him, knowing that she should say no. She knew that they both had betrothals, that they were to other people, that Rickon couldn't be her future. He was almost four-and-ten, with no other company but hers. There was no reason for her to think it meant anything, that they could ever be anything more to each other. But she met his bright green eyes, and she nodded slowly.

Pressing his hands against her jaw, Rickon tilted her face up. Shireen's heart was pounding in her ears, but she gave way to the emotions she had been ignoring for almost two years now. When their lips met, Shireen sighed against his mouth. She absently reached for him, grasping onto his cloak and pulling him closer. Rickon smiled into their kiss, dropping his hands from her face and moving her legs over his. He wrapped his arms firmly about her waist, keeping her locked against him.

Shireen didn't remember how long they stayed out, or how often they met up afterwards just to share kisses. She only knew that she looked forward to meeting him about the keep as often as he wanted to.

\--

Rickon’s sudden withdrawal made Shireen worry. Close as they had become, she expected Rickon to tell her when something was bothering him. He usually did, ranting about the war effort and how he could help, the lack of activity about Winterfell, how Osha stabs him with a needle whenever she tries to “fix” his clothes. This time, he was silent, sulking about his training in the morning.

Sitting on the wooden fence, Shireen watched on as she usually did. All of Rickon’s movements looked slow and lethargic, even when he moved forward with a burst of energy to strike. He eventually tossed his sword in the snow before simply walking away. Retrieving the blade, Shireen cleaned it off before putting it away. Then, she followed Rickon into the godswood. He was leaning against Shaggydog, curled up in front of the hot spring, looking across the water to the Heart Tree. Shireen approached slowly, folding in her skirts before taking a seat beside him.

Closing her eyes, Shireen tried not to pry. She didn’t know what he was facing, what news could be new. They hadn’t received news of the war in nearly three moons, and she had no gauge for how Rickon was feeling. After a few minutes, Shireen heard the familiar crunching of snow, and she sighed, thinking that he had gone off again. However, the weight of his arms and head fell in her lap, and Rickon squeezed her legs gently.

“Jon’s dead.”

Shireen didn’t have to ask how he knew. It was obvious that Shaggydog’s demeanor mirrored Rickon’s, and after learning of their bond, it wasn’t a stretch to think it extended to the other direwolves. There weren’t any words to exchange. Condolences meant nothing to Rickon, who scarcely considered Jon a brother, and he held little weight in meaningless apologies. So Shireen sat with him, stroking her fingers through his hair. They stayed in the godswood for hours, staring at the water.

The letter came a week later. Rickon didn’t even break the seal on it. He tossed it aside before sulking off to the crypts where Shireen joined him with food. Slowly, he recovered, and Shireen watched him carefully for the fate of his remaining siblings.

\--

As Shireen was nearing her twentieth year and becoming more aware of how much of an old maid she was, Rickon tried to marry her for the first time. As adamant as he was against his betrothal, he seemed far too serious about taking her to wife.

“It should be _my_ choice,” Rickon reasoned. “If they’re to crown me as King in the North, I should be allowed to rule as I see fit.”

“And what of _my_ betrothal?” Shireen asked back, stepping out of his reach. “What of the disgrace to my father if I break his vows?”

Rickon shrugged. “You’re a princess,” he said. “A princess should choose her husband. Wouldn’t you choose me?”

Shireen laughed to buy time. Instead, she pulled Rickon into a hug, knowing that he’d wrap himself about her and just be there. “I’d choose not to dishonor my family,” she muttered out.

“I’m a wildling,” Rickon countered. “I know nothing of honor.”

“Then, tell me why you returned,” Shireen shot back.

“Tell me why you kiss me,” Rickon said without missing a beat. “Tell me what a betrothed princess is thinking when she kisses the betrothed King in the North.”

No words came out, though Shireen’s mouth opened for them. She stepped away, crossing her arms. “I think I much preferred you when you spoke only the Old Tongue.”

Rickon smirked at her. “ _I still can, my lady_ ,” he said in the language, leaning forward and kissing her full on the mouth.

Shireen sighed into him, knowing that she could never deliberately pull herself away from Rickon, not when they only had each other. However, when Rickon managed to unclasp her cloak, she had to step away to stop him from following through on the action. Rickon growled loudly, a low sound coming from deep in his chest. He reached for her waist to bring her back, and Shireen reciprocated the kiss for a moment before moving away and running off through the woods.

If it was at all possible for them to grow closer, they did. Osha obviously sided with Rickon and his wants, as Shireen quickly learned. She didn’t speak with the wildling woman much, but there was a hard bias toward looking out for Rickon’s well-being. Oftentimes, he was in the room when it happened. Every time, Rickon pulled sharply away from Osha with a roll of his eyes, hiding behind Shireen.

With their limited information from the war, it seemed to end very abruptly. The maester delivered the letter directly to Shireen, where more deaths were listed than she ever expected. Among them was the news of her betrothed. Rickon found her crying over the letter and scowled down at the parchment until he read on and learned that her father was also lost in the war. She spent the day curled up on a chair with him, sobbing into his chest.

The departure from the Wall seemed slower. With Shireen’s new status—no longer a princess, no longer betrothed—she had no purpose in the rebuilding of the country. Rickon offered her a place in Winterfell, to stay with him and live with him. Shireen couldn’t give her reason. She knew Rickon would hear no word that hinted at the fact that he was to wed a Mormont, but she would not let herself watch him marry another. Instead, she claimed Storm’s End, little as it was hers. Someone had to continue the Baratheon name.

Shireen had every intention to uphold her honor as a woman, little as Rickon cared for such things. Their isolation made it so he would never have found another woman to take to bed, though he made advances toward her often enough. Usually it was easy to brush him aside, but when guests started arriving in Winterfell on their way South, Shireen watched on bitterly as women paid him far more attention than necessary.

She called him away simply enough, sometimes without even being near him. But she had more control over Shaggydog than he did, and she had long learned of their bond. Whispering in the ear of the wolf, Shireen summoned Rickon to her side, and he always came. Rickon would laugh at her jealousy before kissing away her frown with a kiss. They were better off ignoring the future. Being lost in each other was enough.

A letter changed that.

“You’re to be wed in a moon,” Shireen said, walking through the godswood.

Rickon stopped moving immediately. He shot a glare over to her, trying to read her motions. “No,” he said firmly. “I won’t.”

“Ser Davos wrote,” Shireen explained. “The Lady Mormont is returning to Bear Island shortly before coming here.”

Narrowing his eyes at her, Rickon took a few steps closer. He watched her fidget with the paper, seeing her anxiety, and hearing the fear in her voice. “Is that all he said?”

“I-I’m to leave South with the Baratheon forces,” Shireen told him. She swallowed hard. “What’s left of them.”

Rickon wouldn’t be fooled so easily. “And?” he asked.

“I’ll go to Starfall,” she murmured, “and be wife to Edric Dayne.”

Shireen expected fury. She expected anger and frustration, the thousands of negative emotions Rickon usually embraced. It would have been easy. It would have made the matter much simpler if he had cast her aside. Instead, Rickon pulled her tight against him, kissing her full on the mouth. She knew better than to respond. Her upbringing and lessons should have made her choose correctly in this instance, but she didn’t. Shireen pulled him even closer, finally sobbing again as her future was decided for her.

Rickon was entirely undeterred. He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the Heart Tree. “You won’t,” he muttered against her mouth. Clumsily, he fumbled with the clasp of her cloak and let it fall around her feet. It wasn’t the first time. Rickon had tried to wed her before the old gods too many times to count. Shireen had stepped away every time before. She had never let him get close to completing it in any possible sense. This time, she didn’t even try. Rickon removed his own cloak and clasped it at her neck, kissing her all the while. “I, Rickon of House Stark, wed you,” he muttered against her mouth. “You are _mine_ , Shireen Baratheon.”

As simple as that, Shireen found herself with a husband, wedded, with only a bedding keeping them from having it dismissed. All sense told her not to call attention to it, but Rickon was the only lord she knew, the only lord she cared for, and it was far too tempting to have him entirely as hers. “What of our bedding?” she asked, toying with his hair. “The keep is full of people now, my lord. You cannot simply sneak me off to your chambers.”

Rickon smirked at her, lifting her into his arms once more. “I assure you, I can,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “But I’ll be damned if anyone tries to stop us.”

With night approaching and snow beginning to fall, Rickon led them deeper into the godswood, farther than anyone wandered on a whim. He nestled them against a tree, laying down both cloaks as protection from the natural forces. Shireen laughed at him, nearly running again, but she knew that he wouldn’t balk from this. However, Shireen was unprepared for his level of care. He never let her skin hit ice, not once did he jeopardize her safety or health, even as he slowly undressed the two of them.

In the end, Rickon ended up laughing with her more than she ever expected. Shireen grew up learning that beddings were horrific and painful, something to be feared more than anything. The experience as a whole was much sillier than Shireen thought possible, especially with their combined inexperience. Rickon apologized profusely for spilling his seed before they were even undressed. Laughing at him, Shireen pulled him to her chest, kissing at his forehead.

“We _will_ be bedded,” Rickon promised, moving his arms around her and covering her back up. He slowly dragged his fingers up her stomach before tying up her gown. “Perhaps on a featherbed…”

Nodding, Shireen kissed at Rickon’s hair. He moved up her body slowly, dropping kisses everywhere. He nudged at her greyscale with his nose before getting to his feet. He held out a hand to pull her to her feet. “Come,” he said, “let me make you my wife for true.”

The heat was building throughout Shireen’s body, and she didn’t know how to hide how eager she was to have Rickon after years of knowing him. As they had known Winterfell for years, the two could navigate the castle better than anyone. No one so much as glimpsed them as they locked themselves away in Rickon’s rooms, enthusiastically pulling at each other’s clothes to finally feel the other against them. Shireen murmured out to Rickon her fears of beddings, and he assured her that he wouldn’t cause her any harm. With her faith in him, Shireen relaxed against him, not a speck of worry about the days that were ahead of them.

The future came for them sooner than expected. Their massive jolt back to reality was in the arrival of the Baratheon army. Rickon nearly sulked away again, taking Shireen with him, but Shireen knew her duty all too well. She called Rickon back to the keep, and forced him to greet their guests. The southern men had been in the north longer than any other forces, and Shireen could see the wear on these men, along with their eagerness to return to their families. Rickon nearly forbade it, but his respect for Shireen won out quickly. Even though he was bitter about it, he saw her off with many whispered promises to steal her away if she ever asked him, too.

Edric Dayne and his bannermen from Dorne were with the guests, though Rickon never so much as paid them a second glance. Shireen went off to be with her betrothed as was expected of her. However, Rickon refused to be ignored as long as Shireen was in Winterfell, and he intervened whenever he could simply to prove that he could. Even on the eve of her departure, Shireen spent the night ensconced in Rickon. He stayed with her all through the night, muttering promises of love and a future together in her ear. Part of Shireen realized that even Rickon didn’t acknowledge their marriage, not when no one knew of it, and he would let her go if she went.

Shireen rode off solemnly, seated on the horse between Ser Davos and her intended. For the first time in her life, Shireen was thankful that no one witnessed her as she grew up. No one knew how often she smiled at Winterfell, how easy happiness came surrounded by snow. She now relied on her honor to uphold the vows of others and keep her heading away from the only place that ever felt like home. None of the men commented on her behavior, thinking it normal from the woman who was only known as a sad child.

Early on, Edric Dayne tried to bridge this gap. He often asked Shireen to accompany him on rides, for meals, on walks. She always agreed, but even with Ned’s honest effort she couldn’t muster the smallest feeling of warmth toward him. Nothing could ever compare to the fire of Rickon.

Within a fortnight, Shireen knew she was with child. Her moonblood had yet to come, and Shireen fully embraced the idea of carrying Rickon’s child. She was to be a mother, and with how little they separated, there was no doubt in her mind that Rickon knew the consequences. Even though Shireen considered writing Rickon to tell him of the news, she never brought herself to send any of the letters she wrote. With the difficulty they had on their departure, Shireen couldn’t give Rickon any more doubt about his own betrothal. The match was too good for the North, and he would abandon everything if there was the possibility of her carrying his child.

Shireen kept the news as a secret, but she knew that it wasn’t completely hidden. People noticed the bounce in her step and the smile that graced her face more, but it was taken for excitement leaving the North. Her silence was her armor here, as no one was allowed to learn of her condition. They were stopped in the Riverlands when she received a letter from Winterfell. With trembling fingers, hidden away in her tent, she broke the seal. The parchment had a short sentence on it, written in the Old Tongue.

_I miss you._

The words brought her to tears immediately, and Shireen penned a letter in response, telling him everything about the child that was growing within her. She went so far as the seal the letter and address it to him, but before she went to find a raven, she tossed the letter in the fire. It would only create a problem now. She had been on the road for nearly a moon, and Rickon was surely wed. It was possible that the Lady Mormont carried his child as well. Shireen couldn’t destroy that for him.

She carried on in silence, telling Ned Dayne the bare minimum and keeping out of sights. As always, he was incredibly kind to her regarding all of her requests, letting her grow more distant. Ser Davos tried to bridge them here, as he had arranged the match following the war. Much as Shireen thanked him for finding her a husband who would be good to her, Shireen thought she was far better off without it. 

It was a fortnight later that everything changed again. Shireen lost her first child. And as quickly as she knew she would be a mother, she now knew it would never come to pass. The amount of blood was astounding. She had thought the pains were normal, that it was to be expected from her pregnancy, little advice as she had about it. The dress she wore that day was completely soaked through with the blood, and Shireen stripped it off quickly, as if it could return her child to her womb.

Her hands shook furiously as she worked off her clothes, spreading the stain of blood about her tent. Foolishly, she tried to hide the evidence by burning the dress, but more blood came. Eventually, Shireen gave up. She collapsed onto her bed, crying into her pillows. Now, she would never be a mother. She would never carry her child again. Curling in around her stomach, Shireen stroked her fingers over her stomach, wondering what curse would strip her of every happiness she ever had.

She was found when her meals were delivered. The squire in question dropped the tray quickly before rushing out of the room, undoubtedly scared from the blood.

“It’s moonsickness,” someone said sharply. A small _thud_ followed this, followed by, “fetch her a maid.”

Shireen hadn’t moved since the previous night, and she certainly didn’t intend to do so now. The maid came, cleaning up the room with standard pleasantries. The entire time Shireen simply stared at the wall of her tent. After a while, the maid stopped speaking. Even with how unresponsive she was, the girl helped Shireen into clean clothes and changed her bedsheets, before leaving her sitting in the room alone.

The room was clean now, and Shireen knew that there would always be more blood. She would always be reminded of her failure. Before she could convince herself not to, Shireen wrote Rickon again. It was nearly as short as his only message to her.

_I lost our son. I’m sorry._

Simply penning the words sapped Shireen of all her remaining strength. She was assaulted by her emotions. Tears flooded her eyes, and Shireen broke down again, sobbing over the parchment as she clumsily sealed the letter. All sense in her life was lost now. Her purpose and status had been stripped, and she would never see the man she loved again. Foregoing the fire all together, Shireen trudged back to her bed. Burrowing beneath the furs, Shireen thought she would never rise again.

She had many visitors, particularly now that she was delaying their departure from the Riverlands. Ser Davos took one look at her before declaring her ill, but he left to seek out a maester that could heal her. Ned Dayne sat at her side for a few days, asking what he could do to help, offering anything she could want, and trying to get her to swallow a bite. Once someone noticed she went a few days without food, Shireen was forced to put something in her stomach. Everything made her feel more ill. She almost retched at the sight of food, and odiferous meals weren’t even brought to her room anymore.

“I wrote to the nearby keeps,” Ned told her one day. He strolled through the room slowly, already aware that she would not move or look away from the far wall. “I asked for a featherbed for you, and a maester… Are you feeling any better, my lady?”

Almost a fortnight had passed since Shireen last spoke, and she didn’t know if there was a force in the universe that could break her silence. Her memory was getting worse, but she was positive her letter to Rickon had gone missing. She hoped it went into a fire. There was no way for her to describe this to Ned. She simply wished to stop existing, no longer have to face all the horrors gods had thrown at her. A part of her thought it was her punishment for ever straying from her duty, but she would never apologize for having Rickon as hers. 

So her silence persisted. She was already motionless throughout the day, save when handmaidens forced her to bathe, eat, and make water. Mayhap she would sink into the roughspun wool, and the world would just leave her here while everything else continued on.

She stopped counting the days when she realized she didn’t know what they were marking. Were they days of her life? Days that she would never be a mother? Days spent away from Rickon? It was nonsensical, and she couldn’t function with the numbers in her head. Instead she slept as much as she could, wondering if and when she would never wake up.

\--

The sharp breeze of cool air signaled that someone had entered her tent. Or, at the very least, that someone had looked in. Shireen blinked, staring at the far wall. They would leave soon enough, no one had bothered speaking to her for weeks. Her meals were even delivered in silence, particularly since she rarely touched them. The sound of clothing rustling made her annoyed. Surely, no one in the camp understood what happened, but she expected that they knew to leave her alone. Ser Davos had even taken a step away from tending to her.

When her bed dipped down with the weight of a body, Shireen felt the anger rising in her. Who could be foolish enough to attempt such a thing? Turning as sharply as she could, Shireen prepared herself to kill the perpetrator with her bare hands out of sheer fury. Mellow green eyes made her freeze, and the soft downturn of lips started her tears anew. Clenching her fists, Shireen rolled away from Rickon. She couldn't bare his gaze now, not when she failed at providing him an heir—not when she was completely useless as a woman.

Shaking with sobs, Shireen couldn't feel the bed shift with his weight again. She scarcely registered the feeling of him moving under her blanket. It was only his hands sliding around her stomach that brought her back, and she felt the urge to run. Shireen largely expected that anything was better than letting Rickon touch the part of her that was so tainted. His touch was gentle, though, and he placed his mouth lightly against her hair.

“I forgive you,” he muttered.

Shireen choked on a breath. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking as she found his and forced them off her body. She tried her best to separate from him, but she was too weak to get very far. “Rickon,” she breathed out. Her voice was hoarse and weak from the lack of use. “Rickon... he's gone. I lost him.”

Even though she couldn't see him, she felt his nod against her hair. “It's okay,” he mumbled. “We can have another.”

Shaking her head roughly, Shireen moved onto her back. She couldn't meet his eyes again, not when he looked so understanding about her complete and utter failure. “He was yours,” she reminded him, unsure that he even knew. “He was your heir.”

“And you loved him,” Rickon said simply, reaching out again for her stomach. He slowly stroked his hand over her, trying to coax her closer. “You loved him much longer than I. And you've mourned him for both of us. Now, let me take those burdens in your stead. Rest, and I will love and mourn our first child for you.”

The tears fell freely, then. Shireen shut her eyes to them, not wanting to face her losses again, not wanting Rickon to ever know that he had lost even more. She tried to stifle her sob, nearly choking herself again. Rickon firmly moved them together, pushing her under his chin and wrapping her up in his arms. Shireen cried for hours more, soaking through his tunic entirely, but his hold on her never wavered. When she finally looked up at him again, she found him waiting for her. His own tears had beaten paths down his face, and she could see the wear that was hers for so long on him as well. Moving slow from her fatigue, Shireen managed to get an arm over his waist and finally fall asleep just as the sun was rising.

Long as the night was for them, the day was even longer. When Shireen finally woke, Rickon was still curled around her, looking like he hadn't shut his eyes the entire time. She squeezed him tighter, and he glanced down. Though he didn't smile, Shireen felt the comfort of him. The corner of his mouth twitched, and he raised a hand to wipe her tears from her face.

However, late as it was, Shireen knew that someone would have at least tried to feed her by now. Yet, somehow, Rickon was still here and he was still alive. Shireen blinked down at her hands, unsure what to address.

“Will you tell me about him?” Rickon asked, drawing her from her thoughts. “I'd like to know our son as you did.”

Shireen opened her mouth, but she couldn't form a response.

Rickon's grip tightened. He breathed into her hair and mumbled, “When you're ready. It doesn't have to be now.”

Taking in a deep breath, Shireen nodded. After another few minutes of silence, she felt the situation pressing in around them. Rickon wasn't allowed near her, not when she was betrothed, and especially not when she was traveling with the lord she would marry.

“You haven't been found,” she mumbled, taking handfuls of his clothes into fists. Shireen was afraid that he wasn't real, that she had imagined the events of last night. Mayhap she was delusional from the loss of her child.

“I have,” Rickon said simply, stroking through her hair. He pressed his lips to her forehead for a long time. “I refused to let you wake up alone.”

Shireen blinked at his chest, feeling the strain in her eyes when she looked up at him. “How—?”

“Shaggy.”

Images of the black direwolf stalking about the camp and patrolling her tent almost made her smile. Shireen remembered when he first came to her side, when he first licked her, when Rickon refused to talk to her for a week because Shaggydog _changed his allegiance_. Still, Shireen knew she was safe as long as she had the protection of House Stark, and she dreaded her fate when it would be gone.

“Will you go?” she asked, feeling her future dangling on his response.

Rickon nodded, and her heart dropped. Shireen felt her breath starting to come short, and her hands gave out before they started shaking uncomfortably. Shushing her gently, Rickon pulled her into another hug and kissed her hair.

“Not for long,” he assured her. Rickon moved down until he was level with her face, grabbing her jaw in his hands and forcing her to look at him. “Shaggy will stay with you, but I must go tell Ned Dayne that you're coming to Winterfell.”

Shireen's entire body shook as she struggled to take in a breath. “I-I am?”

“Or Storm's End, whichever you'd like,” Rickon corrected. He moved his thumbs to brush her cheeks, spreading wetness there that she couldn't recall. “But you will wear _my_ cloak, and _I_ will sit the throne at your side.”

Her heart was practically thudding out of her chest, and Shireen felt overwhelmed at his words. She knew she wanted them to be true, but she couldn't stand to let Rickon face the consequences.

“He'll kill you,” Shireen breathed out. The pounding got louder in her ears, and she felt another wave of tears spring to her eyes. Her breathing got shallower. “I-I... Rickon, I can't lose you, too.”

Before she felt herself break again, Rickon moved forward to press his lips to hers. Shireen let out her sob against his mouth, jolting up to wrap her arms around his neck. His hands traveled over her back and into her hair. Rickon didn't stop kissing her until she was too tired to continue and too weak to protest. Still, he hugged her close and pressed their foreheads together.

“Never,” he said firmly. “I will _never_ allow that to happen.”

Shireen nodded, clutching him closer to prolong the moment of their separation. Just the thought of being apart from him was sending waves of panic through her body, and Shireen was torn between her exhaustion and her adrenaline to see this through. Luckily, Rickon sensed her trepidation.

“Come with me,” he said. Sitting up slowly, Rickon brought her up with him, letting her weight rest on his arm.

Rubbing her eyes, Shireen nodded. Then, she made for the ties of her dress, unable to recall when she last changed. When Rickon saw her intention, he helped. He loosened the gown and slowly worked it from her body. Shireen tried not to look, afraid that there would be more blood. She hugged herself as Rickon pulled the fabric from her body and went to fetch her another gown. Instead a dress, she was shocked into opening her eyes when wet fabric hit her arms. Before she could glance down and gauge how she was, Rickon grabbed her chin and kissed her deeply.

“Just getting you clean,” he said gently. “It's okay.”

Taking in a shaking breath, Shireen closed her eyes again and nodded. She distracted herself with the press of Rickon's fingers on her skin, letting the feeling of delight hit her whenever he kissed at her shoulders and arms after cleaning them. He spared no inch of her body from being scrubbed gently, perhaps to spare her the attention he put between her legs. Though Shireen prevented herself from opening her eyes, she couldn't stop the sob from bubbling out of her or the tears that seemed to never stop coming. Rickon finished up soon enough, and he hid the cloth from sight before helping her into clean clothes. Shireen leaned on him through the entire process, unable to hold her weight.

She tried to accompany him all the way to Edric's tent, but couldn't even exit hers on her own. Without preamble, Rickon swept her into his arms, continuing on as if this was his plan the entire time. He led her across the camp without sparing a glance in any direction, and Shireen stared at him solely so she wouldn't see the looks of disgust from the Dornish troops and the Baratheon men that surely hated her now. She placed her hands about his neck, trying to keep herself up as they slowly entered Ned Dayne's tent.

Rickon gave a curt nod before moving to set Shireen in a chair, and he kissed her hands as he took them from his neck. He nearly left to fetch her water, but Shireen gripped onto his hand tightly to stop him. Then, he settled beside her, regardless of the fact that he didn't have a seat.

“It is good to see you up, my lady,” Ned said. He walked to the far wall of the tent with slow, measured steps before returning with a cup of water. “I daresay you need food and water, and mayhap more rest.”

Mumbling out her thanks, Shireen took the cup. She tried to drink deeply and nearly choked herself, but Rickon tipped down the end of the cup, encouraging her to slow down and take small sips.

“I wasn't expecting to see you again, Lord Stark,” Ned said offhandedly.

“I wasn't expecting to see you without an armed guard,” Rickon replied. “But I suppose you have a blade that works just fine.”

Shireen's hand started shaking enough to make her spill water on her gown, catching the attention of both men. Ned came forward with a scrap of cloth as Rickon swiftly removed the cup and took her hands. Shireen took in a deep breath, looking between the two of them.

“Rest assured that I have no need of a blade,” Ned told them. He dabbed at her gown before stepping away. “I feared I would watch my betrothed waste away before my eyes, and I could do nothing to stop it. Yet, Lord Stark has managed to accomplish in a few hours what I have tried to do for weeks.”

Shireen glanced over to meet Ned’s eyes, seeing that he was truly content with this decision. Rickon looked over as well. His frown was met by Ned’s smile, soft as it was. Confusion was clear on Rickon’s face, and he narrowed his eyes at Ned.

“You won’t stop us?” Rickon asked.

Ned huffed, moving across the tent to slump down in his chair. He shrugged, reaching for a glass of wine. “Everyone has lost too much in the war,” he said. “Who am I to stop a chance at happiness for the few that have it?”

Sliding an arm across her shoulders, Rickon stretched up to press a kiss to Shireen’s temple. His hand went into her hair, and he held her firmly against him. The truth of the matter had yet to settle in her mind, and Shireen wondered whether she had the energy to understand what just happened. Rickon nudged her with his nose, turning her to face him.

“Let’s go,” he murmured. The smallest of smiles appeared on his face, and Rickon gently grabbed her face, stroking over her cheeks. “Let’s go home.”

Everything clicked, and Shireen’s vision swam before the tears started flowing. She nodded, finally feeling the first inkling of joy since she left Winterfell. Without being fully aware of it, Shireen smiled, and Rickon pulled her tight to his chest, nearly pulling her out of the chair. He kissed at her hair, squeezing her in his arms. Surely, her exhaustion caught up to her, and Shireen slumped against him. Her eyes were closing of the own accord and the sheer relief followed her into unconsciousness.

\--

Because of her poor health, it took Shireen another two moons to finish recovering properly. Rickon took her to a maester as soon as he could, nearly riding into the closest keep on Shaggydog. He only didn’t allow her bedrest. He did allow her to spend their entire trip north sleeping atop Shaggydog, where he held her up as they went on. Rickon coaxed food into her a few times every day, allowing her to sleep in his arms up until he found her a featherbed for the night.

It was a slow trip back, but Shireen found that it was infinitely better than any of time she spent traveling south. Rickon was incredibly attentive, kissing her softly and keeping her against him. He made certain that they were safe for the entire ride, letting Shireen talk herself hoarse every day and gain her strength back.

With his nose and hand in her hair, Rickon was at her back as Winterfell grew out of the snow. Shireen’s squeezed Rickon’s other hand in her lap, sucking in a sharp breath. Rickon stirred, leaning over her shoulder and kissing her greyscale. He hummed at her, flattening his hands over her stomach and pulling her closer.

“What of your wife?” Shireen asked, feeling a wave of panic rise in her.

Rickon kissed her again, letting out a small chuckle. “I have no wife,” he said calmly. “Unless you’re going to acknowledge our marriage.”

Shireen shook her head, smiling softly. “What of the Mormont woman?”

“I don’t know,” he said, and Shireen could hear the smile in his voice. “I wrote to Bear Island and told them not to bother sending anyone.”

“What?” Shireen asked. She turned sharply, knocking Rickon’s teeth slightly. 

“They crowned me,” Rickon said by way of explanation. “The northerners put a crown on my head and named me King in the North. My first act, as king, was to end my betrothal.”

Shireen smiled, leaning back against his chest and staring at the keep in the distance. “And what of your next act?”

Rickon lazily moved into her neck, kissing at the skin there. “I will make you my wife for true,” he said. “And tell any man who asks for a bedding to fuck off.”

Though Shireen laughed, she knew that that would be for her and her alone. Over their many weeks of travel, Rickon had taken a step back from drowning her in intimacy. He still shared her bed every night, but he made no advance toward her clothes and he never moved farther than kissing her. Because of how ill losing a child had made her, Rickon was fully prepared to give her all the time she needed before trying again.

\--

Rickon married her when she asked him to. It wasn’t their first marriage, not technically, but they both welcomed the idea that everyone else would know they belonged to each other. The bannermen of the north demanded a celebration. They called for a tourney and feasts almost solely for the excuse of having a reason to smile. Rickon couldn’t deny them this, not after the losses of the war, and Shireen agreed.

However, they watched the festivities from afar. They no longer knew anyone in the Seven Kingdoms, so they had no cause to greet guests other than to introduce themselves as the king and queen of Winterfell. Jousts were finished, melees were fought, and Shireen knew none of the details of it. She only knew that it was the first tourney she had ever been to, and the only thing that mattered was that Rickon was now her husband. Even as all the attendees were leaving, Shireen cared little for the pleasantries. She simply wished for her life to return to normal.

A fortnight after the tourney, Shireen was at the window in their room, looking out across the grounds. Shaggydog was off wandering the godswood, relishing in the snow before spring started clearing off the ice. She closed her eyes and sighed loudly, leaning onto the windowsill. Behind her, the heavy wooden door opened and closed. Shireen counted slowly, knowing that Rickon would reach her soon. He wrapped his arms around her in greeting, leaning forward to kiss her shoulders. Gathering all of her courage, Shireen swallowed.

“He looked like you,” she muttered out.

Immediately, Rickon froze. After a beat, his hands started traveling again, rubbing at her arms and moving her closer. “I thought the Baratheon seed was stronger,” he said, and Shireen knew he was smiling.

She shook her head, trying to ease away her tears. “No,” she said softly. “He was a Stark as you are.”

“A Tully, then?” Rickon asked, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“A Tully wouldn’t have a direwolf following after them,” Shireen replied, lifting a hand to stroke Rickon’s hair. “Shaggydog loved him… chased him about the keep… nearly drove Osha mad.”

Rickon laughed then, holding her tighter. “And us?” he asked.

“He was our son,” Shireen said, and that was that. None of the tears ever fell. The distance and time had served her well, and Rickon fully accepted whatever she had to give. Shireen would never forget the sting of losing a child, and Rickon wouldn’t push her.

Not too long after, Shireen invited Rickon close again. She missed having him so close, and truly wished to feel him as no one else had. He was nearly as gentle as their first time, making sure that her pleasure came first. It took a fair amount of effort for Shireen to forget that a child could come of their union, but Shireen reminded herself that she was allowed to enjoy herself, regardless of the outcome. Rickon told her as well.

“I don’t need an heir,” he said, stroking her hair from her face. He kissed her soundly, deeply. “This is enough. You are enough.”

“I love you,” Shireen whispered.

“Yes,” Rickon hummed out. “I love you.”

Verbally, it was their first declaration of love. Shireen knew it didn’t matter, though. What was the word when they had years of actions that proved it long ago? She knew that she had Rickon’s love since he first gazed at her and simply watched her write to her father. He was only one-and-ten at the time, but he smiled until she finished, never diverting his gaze. Nothing about the words made it more real to her. Their kisses, their wedding, their bedding… The only proof she needed was the way Rickon looked at her.

\--

She told Rickon the instant she knew her moonblood hadn’t come. She pushed down the bubble of anxiety growing in her, and Rickon assured her once more that he would take only what she could give. Not a month later, Shireen lost the child. It hurt less than her first, but Shireen felt the devastation just as sharply as before. Rickon offered all that he could to help, though it wasn’t particularly helpful. Shireen didn’t let it isolate her as it had before. Now, she simply stepped into her queenly duties with fuller force.

When they had been married three years, and still had no children, rumor began to spread. Shireen was long used to being looked on poorly by others, and Rickon largely ignored it. He confirmed and denied nothing, simply refusing to respond to questions and requests that he have an heir. Shireen was far more vocal about the sly shots at her ability to conceive, however, never with her own voice. Shaggydog followed her about closer than ever, snapping at any man or woman who even appeared to be condescending toward Shireen. Rickon largely approved of this, smiling at Shireen whenever he spotted her shadowed by his direwolf.

They cared for each other as always, tending to the keep and lands. Shireen was a perfect queen, and Rickon found a comfortable seat on the throne with her at his side. Together, the North was safely under control; even as wildlings came down to settle on the Gift. Shireen was never more content. However, she still could not stand to think that she had failed to give Rickon a child.

“Can you remember Skagos?” Shireen asked Rickon one day, sliding into their bed beside him.

Rickon chuckled, turning into her to pull her closer. “Of course,” he said. “It was almost my first home.”

“Almost?” Shireen asked, stroking his hair back.

“It never felt right,” Rickon explained. “Shaggy was never comfortable there, and I always felt like running off.”

Shireen hummed, resting her head on his chest. “When did that change?”

“I don’t know,” Rickon said. He rolled into Shireen, hugging her tight. “It’s not a moment that I can recall. I just… don’t feel like running anymore.”

Shireen smiled into his chest. She settled on his arm, absently dragging her fingers over his ribs. Sighing, she looked up at him. “It’s been three moons,” she mumbled. “The longest time since I…”

Rickon kissed her quiet. He swept his hands over her back, pressing their bodies together. Shireen let herself be lost in him. Even if it was the first time she carried a child for so long, if she had a child at all, she would be happy if it was also the last time. 

Slowly, Shireen’s stomach began to swell. Rickon was obviously hiding his excitement at seeing her carrying a child. Osha doted on her more as Rickon took some of her responsibilities in order to give her more time to rest. Shireen tried to protest until her child began moving within her even more. Each night, Rickon curled up next to her, stroking his fingers over her belly as it grew larger. He kissed her soundly, murmuring out words of encouragement whenever he could.

Her labor was long and hard. Even though Rickon had sent out word for maesters, shamans, and medicine men long ago, he still worried for the health of his wife and his child. Shireen had been crushing the optimism within her for so long, a part of her still couldn’t believe that she might actually be having a child.

Several times, she told herself to stop counting. Numbers never did her any favors. They were all simply reminders of her past. Try as she might to latch onto numbers she deemed more important, Shireen slowly let them go as she tried to deliver her child safely. The ones were the hardest. She had prided herself on recalling the first times she accomplished something ever since she was a child. Her first word spoken, her first time writing the alphabet, and her first riding lesson… she let them fall away. The ones with Rickon were harder. She could still vividly remember the first time she saw him, the first time he spoke, their first introduction, their first kiss… It was all a lifetime ago, and Shireen needed to be fully focused on the present to complete her latest ordeal.

Aside from the pain, there was little that Shireen remembered. She knew that Rickon was at her side the entire time, and she recalled his laughter when Osha shoved aside their maester to deliver their child herself. But she couldn’t recall seeing her child, nor did she know if she heard it. In her exhaustion, Shireen fell asleep long before she could even check to see if she had finally succeeded.

\--

“It’s the pain from childbirth,” Osha murmured. “You’re lucky she survived given her past.”

“When will she wake?” Rickon asked. There was some shuffling, a small noise from deep in Rickon’s chest.

“Soon, I expect,” Osha replied.

Fighting the veil of sleep over her, Shireen broke into her consciousness. She coughed, blinking open her eyes and looking around. Immediately, a cup was pressed into her hand, but she tried to shake it off.

“You must drink,” Osha said. “Drink, and I’ll go fetch the little lordling.”

Staring up at the wildling woman, Shireen took the cup if only because it meant she would see Rickon sooner. Osha watched her up until she brought the cup to her lips before leaving the room. Shireen’s intentions to put the cup down were tossed aside as the cool liquid ran down her throat. She drank deeply, going so far as to pour herself another glass. Sitting up, Shireen leaned against the wall as she awaited Rickon’s return.

He threw the door open when he did so, hitting it hard against the far wall. Shireen scarcely had time to jump from the noise before Rickon crossed the room and kissed her soundly.

“My wife,” he greeted, “my wonderful, strong wife.”

Shireen shoved him off with all the power she had. “Our child?” she asked eagerly.

“Our _daughter_ ,” he corrected. Rickon turned to the door just as Osha walked in carrying a small bundle of furs. 

Shireen reached for them immediately, opening them up and pulling out the smallest babe she had ever seen. Without even thinking of it, Shireen searched the child for any traces of greyscale, letting out a sigh when she discovered that their baby was healthy. Despite Rickon’s grin, and how he touched both Shireen and their daughter so tenderly, Shireen could not stop the bubble of disappointment that she had not given birth to a boy. Her face fell, and Rickon noticed immediately. Shireen shook her head softly. “She’s…”

“Our heir,” Rickon interjected. He spoke with his relatively new voice as king. “Our daughter. She will inherit our seat at Winterfell.”

Taking his hand, Shireen smiled. She leaned down to regard their babe carefully, trying to imagine how she would look in a few years’ time. “She’s beautiful… Did you name her?”

Rickon shook his head. He leaned down to press a small kiss to their daughter’s forehead before giving Shireen one as well. “I thought you might like, perhaps, to name her for your mother.”

Recoiling away, Shireen hugged her baby closer, as if she could keep the child physically far from the thought. “No,” she said quickly. “She will need to be stronger than my mother, and her name should be so.”

“Did you have an idea for it?” Rickon asked, climbing over her to lie at her side. He stroked their daughter’s hair from her forehead, smiling and moving to kiss Shireen again.

“The woman who raised you,” Shireen said, the spark igniting once it properly formed. “The woman who traveled the harshest lands just to bring you to me.”

Rickon grinned, kissing her firmly before pulling away and staring her in the eyes. Shireen glanced around for Osha, hoping to ask the wildling woman for permission. As if summoned, Osha strolled into the room, holding a tray laden with food and drink for Shireen.

“Little lordling treats me as if I’m a nursemaid,” she muttered to no one. “I expect I’m a handmaiden now as well.”

Shireen smiled, and Rickon turned to look at Osha. “No,” he said. “I’d only ask one more thing from you.”

Osha snorted. “As all that you need, little lord,” she said, placing the tray at their feet. “You know I’ll give you all that and more.”

“Your name,” Rickon declared, puffing out his chest slightly as Shireen shook her head at him.

Nicking a small wedge of cheese, Osha popped it in her mouth before Rickon’s words registered. “What?” she asked, turning to face them. “What reason have you for—?”

Shireen laughed, lifting the child up higher. She brushed her nose against the child’s soft cheek before looking up at Osha. “She needs a name,” Shireen said deliberately. “And I can think of no better options.”

Osha scoffed, placing her hands on her hips. “The crypts are full of proper Stark names for you to take your pick.”

Rickon shook his head and carefully took the child from Shireen. “I quite like the sound of Osha Stark, Queen in the North.”

The pass between Rickon and Osha was too obviously teasing on both ends to miss, and Shireen pulled her husband back for a kiss. Again, Osha snorted loudly. “Well, I can’t argue with a king.”

It was the first day of many more to come.


End file.
